Sunday, April 30, 2017

Temperatures all over the world are completely going awry (in so many parts of India, already touching 48-50' C), inevitably to be followed by other inclemencies: showers which would make rivers out of villages and cities; storms and snow, floods and drought, anywhere in the world in unprecedented quantities.

I would like to draw the attention of anyone who is interested in this picture and what I write, to my comprehensive dissertation on the impossibility of man's ability to control or be in charge of Climate Change. (Please refer to my blog, which has remained unsupported, perhaps even not read, but definitely not taken seriously, apparently, by anyone, anywhere: http://rameshgandhi.blogspot.in/2014/11/saving-our-planet-limitless-vanity-of.html )

I urge people not only to peruse, but either to support or put their argument/s against my hypothesis and prognostication about the inevitable perdition of mankind.

I thank those who would respond to this appeal by dropping in a line in support, in opposition, or to question the validity of my arguments. Thank you for your patience, if you have come this far.

Friday, April 28, 2017

I took this picture sometime in the nineteen-forties. A number of my classmates in Calcutta came from families which owned coal mines in Bihar, and they often took me to their villages during vacations. I think that this picture was taken somewhere between Jharia and Ondal. The camera, which might have been a box camera, was lent to me by one of my friends.

The coal was cut by maalkatas, pulled up on a crane lift, washed, sized, then piled on small cars, to be taken to the railroad yard. The colliery would have its own private track, which would join the regular railroad system for shipment out of the mine area.

When I was 14, the Calcutta newspaper Navbharat Times (a Times of India experiment to test whether they could start an edition in Calcutta, where severe competition was offered by Amrit Bazar Patrika and The Statesman), published a on the entire last page a piece written by me with a step-by-step description about how a colliery works, illustrated with about 20 photographs. The photographs and words were written in a boy's simple language. Sadly, I cannot locate that first effort; perhaps this is the only surviving photograph.

The coal mines were nationalised by Indira Gandhi in 1973, and my mine-owning friends are scattered around India in other pursuits, if they have not left this world.

I am posting this picture in the days leading up to May Day, the international Labor Day, in part because of the unprecedented revolution through which the polity of this country is passing. Some people feel good about it, some dangerously, perilously destructively, some cannot afford to care. One can wonder, do the people who work in the coal mines today have aadhaar cards, and bank accounts, and a cashless economy? And more importantly, have their lots improved since this picture was taken? Judging by the recurrent reports of mine accidents, one fears that they have not; or not enough.
-------------------------------

Bhashwati wrote:

What an impossibly sharp image you have posted and what acutely significant questions you have planted in the text.

From what we have found in recent years many many more have joined the ranks of those whose lots cannot improve.

Understandably.

There
is a limit to the numbers that can get into the Forbes list but there
can never be a limit to the numbers that get disenfranchised not only in
mine fields and tea gardens but within every nook and cranny of
civilised society that lies along the fault lines of progress.

-----------

Nancy wrote:

This reminds me of a long tracking shot in Louis Malle's Phantom India, in which a man pushes a foot-pedal sewing maching on a wheeled platform down the railroad tracks from nowhere to nowhere. Heart-breaking.

Wednesday, April 26, 2017

I am a traveler on the nowhere paththere are no signs of the beginningnor directions for moving forwardtowards the destinationif there is oneI have seen countless travelersworn out by ecstasy and emptinessrushing toward miragesin which to drownthorns prick meas I try to pluck some joyin and out of the journeyboth illumination and darknesshave traversed the path with meand taken turns to confound methey have not kept me company for longon the nowhere path----------Anonymous wrote:Wanted,
one patch of life

Devoid
of dilemma

The
light beckons

The
dark seems safer

Craving
oblivion

I
stumbled

And
fell

Charu wrote:Bhai,
I see an Indecision nicely elicited in the placement of chappals; oriented to
opposite direction.

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

For those who either did not know it, or, if they knew it, did not understand it; understanding it now, not guaranteed.

Around the age of 12 (1948), in a Gujarati charitable school, millions of questions, ideas, curiosities, began to make their rounds through my mind. Today I am unable to fathom how it happened, when the school did not have a library with works of thinkers or scientists, nor a teaching staff which was educated enough to rouse the fire of hunger for knowledge. Among many names, from various mythologies, sciences and civilisations and history, which threw themselves at me for me to grapple with, were philosophers of the past two or three hundred years, mainly from the West, like Socrates, Schopenhauer, Voltaire, Kant, Heidegger, Hegel, Nietzsche, Camus, Bertrand Russell and, most relevant to my writing today's essay, Jean-Paul Sartre. I had no access, either to the English language or to a mentor for consultation or engagement. My familiarity, therefore, with these and countless others, forever would remain a mystery to me.

I am writing today specifically about how existentialism became a brand philosophy, and Sartre its ultimate spokesperson. I confess I was no less fascinated by it than was war-torn Europe, especially Eastern Europe, which, impoverished and forlorn, embraced existentialism in its variegated forms. It probably still continues to do so, even as, as far as I know, Sartre's relevance, if any, is fading elsewhere.For four to five years (between the ages of 15 to 20), I began to feel that I had found my ultimate calling: existentialism was my philosophy and my religion. But then, I became another man, which is another story (Theory of Contingency and Inevitability of Inevitability). But I did not lose my verve as an explainer or spokesperson for Sartre and company, and began, in lighter moments, to claim that my frivolous interpretation of it was the real one. In other words, I re-shaped it in words and in my narratives, and in parables that I built to illustrate existentialism.Today my wife, Nancy (@nancygandhi), came across the 3-minute video by Will Braden, Paw de Deux. The moment I saw it, by happenstance, I found in it the definition of my interpretation of the brand of existentialism which was perpetuated by Sartre and others, which the author of the video almost certainly did not intend.I am delighted to present, through the courtesy of M. Will Braden, my brand of existentialism. I hope you exist as you enjoy, or vice versa. Bonjour. (Please watch both Henri Part I and Henri Part II - Paw de Deux, below.)Note: Those who are interested in what I call the existential cat (in philosophical terms, connected with Camus, Sartre et al.) can go to this link, courtesy the creator, Will Braden.

--------------------------------

--------------------------------Charu wrote:Bhai,

If I did not understand your version of existentialism the cat, a twin of my
Murphy, did a good job of explaining it.

The cats do lead a life of existentialism. I have seen it led, first hand.

While you do not like them as much I think Murphy will do a great job being an
insignia for your version of the theory.

Just joking.

charu
----------------------------Rameh Sir,

I never had a cat in my house. I used to not like dogs till we acquired a great dane. He was all of eight inches high when we got him as a two month old puppy. In three months thereafter he grew to thirty two inches and he was huge. He reminds me so much of the cat featured in the video. I was seeing my dog and not the cat in the video.

Dogs, too, lead a life of existentialism.

Unfortunately, my dog does not exist in our house as we had to give him away.

Monday, April 24, 2017

(My photograph of the Chashme Shahi bridge, Srinagar, 1981)please click on the picture to enlarge it

Agar firdaus bar rōy-e zamin ast, hamin ast-o hamin ast-o hamin ast. This is a couplet by the Persian-language poet Amir Khusrau, "If there is a paradise on earth, it is here, it is here, it is here." Amir Khusrau is said to have paraphrased what Emperor Jahangir ecstatically, unbelievingly exclaimed upon seeing Kashmir for the first time, after his conquest.

---------------------

This beautiful, delicate, almost fragile song, with lyrics by Gulzar, is from a movie set in Kashmir: Yahaan (2005):

Pooche Jo Koi Meri Nishaani

Rang Hina Likhna

Gore Badan Pe

Ungli Se Mera Naam Ada Likhna

Kabhi Kabhi Aas Paas

Chand Rehta Hai

Kabhi Kabhi Aas Paas

Shaam Rehti Hai

Aao Naaaaa Aaao Naaaaa

Jhenum Mein Beh Lenge

Vadi Ke Mausam Bhi

Ek Din To Badlenge

Kabhi Kabhi Aas Paas

Chand Rehta Hai

Kabhi Kabhi Aas Paas

Shaam Rehti Hai

Aau To Subha Jao To

Mera Naam Saba Likhna

Burf Pade To Burf Pe

Mera Naam Dua Likhna

Zara Zara Aag Vaag

Pass Rehti Hai

Zara Zara Kangde Ke

Aanch Rehti Hai

Kabhi Kabhi Aas Paas

Chand Rehta Hai

Kabhi Kabhi Aas Paas

Shaam Rehti Hai

Raatein Bunjhane

Tum Aagaye Hoo

Jab Tum Haste Hooooo

Din Ho Jata Hai

Tum Gale Lage Too Ooooo

Din So Jata Hai

Doli Uthaye Aayega Din To

Pass Bitha Lena

Kal Jo Mile To

Mathe Mein Mere

Suraj Uga Dena

Zara Zara Aas Paas

Dhup Rehegi

Zara Zara Aas Pass

Rang Renhege

Zara Zara Aas Paas

Dhup Rehegi

Zara Zara Aas Pass

Rang Renhege

Puche Jo Koi Meri Nishaani

Rang Hina Likhna

Gore Badan Pe

Ungli Se Mera Naam Ada Likhna

Kabhi Kabhi Aas Paas

Chand Rehta Hai

Kabhi Kabhi Aas Paas

Shaam Rehti Hai

-----------------------

Translation:

If they ask you my identity, say-

I am the colour of Henna

As traced by your fingertips on my fair body

I am spelt Grace

Tell them the moon hovers around me at times

And at times I am wrapped in the dusk of the evening

Write down my name as morning, when i arrive

Put it down as night when I leave

And when the snowflakes begin to fall

Scribble my name on the fallen snow as prayer

Tell them, there’s the blaze of fire about her

and at times, the comforting glow of the kangri

When you laugh, the day fills up with sunshine

And when you embrace me, the day lulls itself to sleep

And when the day comes as a newly-wed in a palanquin

take my hand and make me sit next to you

and if you find tomorrow

make it sprout the sun from my forehead

If they ask you my identity, say –

I am Henna

Tell them the sun shines around me at times

And at times I’m enveloped in colours of myriad hues…

Translation from:

http://blog.chandrahasa.com/archives/2742

Naam Adaa Likhna, from the film Yahaan (2005)

Lyrics: Gulzar

Music: Shantanu Moitra

(Minissha Lamba's first film appearance, while her family was managing one of the biggest hotels in Srinagar. While in Madras, bright, beautiful Minissha would come to my house directly from the school for 'enlightenment', where her equally beautiful mother Manju Lamba, an artist-architect, would pick her up. I was requested to take her pictures, which I took aplenty, and which can be seen in different parts of my blog.)

Which path does life offer
Oh my heart, it is only a transaction
Miles of silence, years of loneliness
We are forgotten by the world, you and me, everyone
Knowing this, then why do our eyes fill with tears

There are no shelters along the road
No one will come into your arms to comfort you
Neither For you, nor for me, is there anyone to cry for us
Even in love, there are only false bonds
Why then are you drowning in sighs
Nobody will belong to me, or to anyone
It is not the way of life, that someone will share one's oppression

Why are you disturbed about the nights which have passed
What is it to me that so much has been lost
Whether you get a bed or a funeral pyre, you will find sleep
The kite-(life)-string which tied you (to life) slipped out of your hands
What is to be gained from the lost bonds
Wherever, whenever you ask for happiness, I will have to cry
No one is yours, no one is mine, so then who are we missing

Sunday, April 16, 2017

I was coming into my factory one day, and found two of my staff members talking to an old man. He had such an interesting face that I asked if I could take his photograph. I went to my office to get my camera, and by the time I returned, the talk had become an argument. My staff members were teasing the old man, who had come into Madras from a village to conduct his business, which was buying and selling scrap. Seeing me, he turned away from the others contemptuously and addressed me, saying that he could buy my entire factory and everything in it, if I were willing to sell it. Out of curiosity I asked how much he would pay for it. He said as if it were the most obvious thing, that he would buy it by weight. Bemused, I politely told him that he must be confused about the price of things, and that he could not buy the factory for the price of scrap, and by weight. The old man then decided that I was the most reasonable person present, and began to complain to me that my staff were idiots. That was when I took this picture of his irritated and incredulous expression.

Friday, April 14, 2017

I knew her first as Mother Catherine, and later as Sister Bernadette. I joked with her, wondering how one could be a Mother first, and then a Sister. She taught French (she was French-Canadian) at Stella Maris, one of the most prestigious colleges in the South.

Sister Bernadette became interested in me because of our shared interest in religion and in Sartre, and Existentialism, a branch of philosophy which was very popular, especially after World War II. She also asked me to direct a Manipuri dance drama performed by the students, and to lecture at the college, even on atheism, which was my forte.

She came home often to meet me and my wife. We had many great conversations over dinner, and then I would drop her back at the college. Interestingly, by the time the evening was over it was almost always after ten p.m., when the gates of the college were locked. She always asked me to park a little away, and climbed over the compound wall, and jumped down inside, so that the watchman would not be disturbed, and nor would the college rules. I jokingly named her The Jumping Nun, a reference to a popular movie of the time, The Singing Nun.

Sister Bernadette eventually rose to become the Principal of Stella Maris, and then, before ending her career in India, she became the head of the entire complex, including schools and a convent. Many years after she had returned to Canada, she continued to be in touch with me. Then, after a long gap, I was told that she had passed away. But I smile even now, remembering the Jumping Nun, scrambling over the college wall in the dark.

Incidentally, she always refused to have her picture taken, but she made an exception for me; in fact she requested me to photograph her.

The expression
contained in the eyes and the meaning contained in the text are equally
evocative,.. in the past looking at the future and in this moment
looking at the past where the future was barely beginning to form even
as the consciousness of your subject evolved..